Follow the Pattern
by Jetainia
Summary: Frank Bryce has patterns that he follows, he wished he had not broken one of them due to a light in a window.


_Monthly Challenges for All_

 _Challenger: Magi Silverwolf_

 _Challenge: Neurodivergent_

 _Word count: 1,198_

 _Beta: Aya Diefair_

 _Note: Frank's dialogue comes directly from Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire._

* * *

It was the end of the night and Frank knew it was time to put the kettle on and have a cup of tea. There was nothing else to be done except sit in bed and read for a bit whilst sipping his beloved beverage. For fifty-seven years, Frank had been living in the little cottage on the grounds of Riddle Manor and tending the gardens. Fifty-two of those years were dedicated to the grounds of an empty house after the mysterious death of the Riddles.

He shuddered now as the memories of the cold cell he had been thrown in all those years ago came back. He was accused of murdering his employers since he had the keys to the house but had been let go when there was no evidence of murder. The Riddles had died without a mark on them, there was nothing to explain their deaths.

Frank shook his head, bringing his hands up to quickly ruffle his hair as if to rub the unpleasant thoughts away. Once that was done and the memories partially gone, Frank fell into the pattern that made up his nightly routine. The afghan moved from his main chair in the sitting room to his bed where he would wrap it around himself before he fell asleep. A book was selected from the small bookshelf in the corner of his bedroom and placed on the bedside table.

Finally, it was time to put the kettle on. He topped up the water, turned the stove on, and placed the iron kettle above the flames. His cup was fetched from the cupboard above the sink and a teabag was shaken before being dropped into the cup. Now all he had to do was wait. With a sigh of contentment, Frank let his eyes wander up to the silent house he had been tending to since he arrived back from the war.

He froze when he saw the glimmer of light shining from one of the windows on the third floor. There was someone in the house. His hands clenched where they were lying on the benchtop as the anger rose in him. It was bad enough the local kids came into his gardens to tear up the plants he worked so hard to keep alive or leave empty beer cans lying about, now they had to enter the house and destroy that too?

Frank thought the mansion was safe from the youths, the rumours of how his employers died were generally enough to keep others out. Glancing at the boiling kettle forlornly, Frank took a deep breath and broke the pattern. Grumbling all the way, he grabbed his torch and keys before walking towards the mansion.

With every step away from his small cottage and the familiarity that it held, Frank felt his fury rising. How dare these kids drag him away from his carefully crafted routines and force him to deal with them. Frank didn't like people in general, they were far too loud and nonsensical for him to like having them around. The kids in Little Hangleton though, they were the worst. They found great enjoyment in making fun of him and his refusal to leave the grounds of Riddle Mansion. They didn't understand that it was a place Frank _knew_.

Frank was grateful that the current owner let him stay in the small groundskeeper's cottage and look after the home and gardens surrounding it as he had done since he had come back from the war while flinching at every strange new thing. Frank understood war, it was death followed by more death. There were patterns he could follow even as the timetables changed every day. He knew what was expected of him on the battlefield. The society he returned to was nothing like that.

So he had found himself a nice job where he could putter around plants and keep them in line. He could be by himself as he got used to the lack of death and destruction surrounding him. He found new patterns to keep him going. No longer was his waking accompanied by a quick, bland breakfast and sound of guns constantly firing. Instead, it was a simple breakfast and the gardens that greeted him.

And now there were idiot children forcing him to abandon the patterns he had found. He reached one of the entrances to the mansion and, with a final longing glance back at his cottage, Frank slid the key into the slot and pushed the door open.

His joints groaning, Frank slowly made his way up the stairs to where he had seen the light. He reached the third-floor landing before he heard the first signs of life other than himself. There seemed to be two people in the room and neither of them sounded like the teenagers he had expected.

As Frank grew closer, he could see a hunched over man talking to a chair that he assumed held the other speaker. They seemed to be talking in some kind of code. One was called Wormtail and the other Lord Voldemort. Frank had to hold in a snort at that, they may not be teenagers but they sure seemed to have names that teenagers would come up with. Who called themselves _Wormtail_? Or _Lord Voldemort_ at that.

Nevertheless, they were in his employer's house and Frank knew that soon enough the fury he felt about that fact would drown out the incredulity over the names the two men used. He looked after this house, he would be damned if he let these two strangers carry out their weird conversation here.

Another man appeared and knelt down in front of the chair that held Lord Voldemort. Frank decided enough was enough and moved to interrupt the three. He stilled as a snake slithered past him and joined the three in the room. Somehow, the snake told Lord Voldemort that he was outside and the two men he could see instantly snapped their attention to where he was standing.

Frank felt his fury drain out of him as he recognised the look on their faces. He had seen that look on soldiers who enjoyed war far too much. He suddenly knew he was out of his depth and desperately wished that he had just followed his nightly pattern.

A green light rushed towards him and he instinctively raised his arms to protect himself. That was the last thing he knew until he found himself in the Hangleton graveyard hovering in the air with other translucent people who were all backing the young boy currently locked in a battle with the man who killed him.

"He was a real wizard, then?" Frank said to himself before continuing, "Killed me, that one did. You fight him, boy."

He watched in satisfaction as the boy continued fighting, helping the boy escape Lord Voldemort by swooping down on the wizard and releasing his fury at being killed before he could have his cup of tea and finish his routine. When he felt himself slipping away from the earthly realm, Frank looked to where he knew his cottage was and wished he could finish the pattern.


End file.
